


Gift in German

by Daegaer



Series: For Art's Sake [18]
Category: Weiß Kreuz
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-11
Updated: 2014-07-11
Packaged: 2018-02-08 20:00:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1954374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daegaer/pseuds/Daegaer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1920s London, Crawford offers to buy his model presents.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gift in German

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the "Pretty Woman" scenario of the Oh No U Didn't Challenge in the Summer 2014 Weiss vs Saiyuki battle.   
> "Gift" is the German for "poison".

When Schuldig knocks on my door it is the first time I have seen him in almost three weeks. He raises his eyebrows, looking up at my expression, and I quickly manage a polite welcoming smile rather than the abject relief that washed over my face at first.

"Worried I'm a ghost?" he says, stepping past me.

"It's been a while," I say, keeping my eyes on him in case he does indeed vanish like a restless spirit.

He laughs at me. "I told you I was going to see Williamson, you can't have forgotten. You had plenty of things to finish, you didn't need me here."

I nod, obediently agreeing. I have barely touched paintbrush or pencil since I last saw him, finding myself in a strange and uninterested state of mind with everything. As he strips and I pick up my sketchbook, I feel that change, and it is as if life has come back to me as I make some quick, rough studies to warm up.

"What's that?" I say, pointing the pencil at a yellowing mark spreading across his ribs.

"I got falling down drunk one night," he says, and adds, laughing at himself, "and I fell down." He looks sidelong at me. "You worry too fucking much. Just draw."

I do as I'm told until he decides he wants something to eat, and wraps himself warmly in my bathrobe. We go back into the other room where he makes us both sandwiches – he refuses to allow me to do so, saying I saw at the bread rather than cut it. He complains that there is only a little cheese and no meat, but I quickly point out that I was given no warning he was coming.

"Don't stay away," I say as we eat our lunch, "you can see how I slip into near starvation without you to remind me to do the shopping."

"You've been spending money on lunches out, don't think I don't know," he says, grinning. He takes a large bite of his sandwich, adding somewhat indistinctly, "You shouldn't ask me not to see my other friends."

I forebear saying that I do not find Williamson to be very pleasant. The man has, after all, provided me with a commission, even if I am ashamed to think of the work I produced. He has expressed an interest in buying one of the paintings I have no shame in putting my name to. I just wish Schuldig weren't friends with him.

"I really don't know what you see in him," I say, knowing as I say it that I sound like a schoolchild complaining about a friend lured to another boy's side.

"He likes me, and he gives me nice presents," Schuldig says, quite matter-of-factly.

"Oh," I say, a little taken aback at such baldly stated materialism. "And you like presents?"

"Who doesn't?"

The words are out of my mouth before I have even finished thinking them.

"I could give you presents."

Schuldig looks at me over his teacup and takes a silent sip, then puts it down, quietly. I cringe, seeing quite clearly the scorn about to come my way. He props his chin in his hand and looks at me steadily.

"Maybe I don't want you to be the sort of friend who gives me presents."

It's not what I expected. "I don't understand," I say, a little helplessly given his proclamation of liking gifts.

He visibly tries not to laugh at me. "I know."

"You didn't like the sketchbooks and pencils?" I ask in some trepidation, wondering if he was humoring me with his apparent pleasure in those previous gifts from me.

"You really do worry too much," he says. "Of course I liked them. That was different, Crawford, I liked them, really. Come on, let's get back to work."

I draw for another hour, trying to decide what I will work on next, then let Schuldig relax as I make notes to myself and jot down ideas as they surface in my mind. It's still quite early when he stretches and goes over to his clothing.

"I have to go," he says. "I said I'd go back early this eveni –"

"Please, stay a little longer," I say. "You don't have to go back just yet, do you? Schuldig, don't go back to visit Williamson now, I need you here so I can work."

He stands there, his underthings in his hands, taken off-guard by my outburst. "I'm going _home_ ," he says at last, "if you must know. I'll see you tomorrow, Crawford." He dresses quickly and heads for the door, where I stop him with a hand on his arm.

"I like giving my friends presents, won't you let me –" I say.

His laugh is almost silent, a half-exasperated, half-amused huff of air.

"You can take me to dinner tomorrow. If it's hot in the afternoon, you can take me out for an ice. All right?" He pauses then says, "Actually, we can go grocery shopping. It doesn't have to be tomorrow, though." Then he is gone, whistling his way down the stairs.

The next day, after a satisfying amount of work I take him to the best restaurant we are dressed for and happily watch him eat as if he hasn't been fed for a week.

"Talk to me about art," he says. "Tell me why you paint rather than write."

"I'm no good with words," I say. "Drawing always seemed easier to me."

"Is that it? You weren't joking when you said you're no good with words. Tell me about art history then."

That I can do, and it allows me to look at him as I talk, to store up the way the light catches the wine in his glass as he raises it to his lips, the curve of his fingers holding his knife and fork, the bright colours of his eyes and hair. _A desert scene_ , I think suddenly, _I must echo that in a desert scene_. I am elated at the thought of having something to work towards, and feel only indulgent pleasure when Schuldig beckons over the dessert waiter.

The next day we go grocery shopping. I stand in front of Fortnum and Masons and feel more than a little alarmed.

"I didn't quite realize this was what you meant," I say feebly.

He doesn't bother trying to hide his laughter this time. "They have a whole department dedicated to outfitting expeditions, Crawford! If you wanted to paint me sitting on top of an iceberg, we could have tinned quail's eggs in our picnic!" He grabs my arm and physically drags me through the doors. To my astonishment, the sales assistants nod to him politely, as if he has been here before, and I realize he has. I don't think I can possibly outspend Williamson, and hope that Schuldig doesn't really want the crate of champagne he is currently eyeing. He leads the way to the expeditions department, where we spend time discussing what we will need in our upcoming trip to first scale several peaks in Tibet, and then to find the lost city of Atlantis. After the assistants' enquiries as to whether they can help grow somewhat pointed, we make our retreat, and Schuldig starts shopping in earnest, evaluating wines, cheeses and preserves with a seriousness I had not expected. Finally he is happy, and orders that everything be delivered to my rooms.

"It'll be like getting a present all over again to take them out of the hamper," he says gleefully as I manage to keep a stoic expression on my face throughout the entire process of payment.

"Still, I wouldn't have thought jams and pickles would be very attractive gift choices for young men," I say as we stroll back.

"No, I like them. It's something we can share," he says. "And something I'm not going to think I should sell."

"Why would you sell your presents?" I say, thinking that I haven't ever seen him with anything I would consider particularly fine.

"Why does anyone? Bills to pay, the rent – it went up after the war, and it really went up for us." His smile is the one I am coming to see as a defence against the world. "But so what? They're only things – something like today, that was better."

He has waited to say this to me, I think, waited until we were in public so that I will not embarrass him by trying to say something stupid and comforting. I'm glad he wanted to say any of it to me, he tells me so little of himself, and am vindictively pleased he values time in my company above expensive gifts from Williamson. He reaches out and grabs my wrist.

"Crawford, listen to me. You don't have to buy me things. I know you were fucking shocked by the prices, and I was being careful. I don't want to forget to be careful, not where it's you. You don't have to think of ways to keep me coming back for you to draw me, I'll do that. It's my job, and even if it wasn't - I like it. You don't have to fight off a damn rival, do you understand?"

"Yes," I say, although I am almost entirely thinking of the way his fingers are stroking the underside of my wrist.

"All right," he says, and lets go of my arm. We walk on.

"Can I still give you artists' materials?"

"Yes, of course, that's different."

"And we can go to dinner?"

"Not every night, or you'll be painting another one of those pictures again before you know it."

He gives me a silly, and almost entirely genuine smile, and I feel a strange pain inside. _I'd paint a hundred of them_ , I think.

I want to buy him the world.


End file.
